


And The Other Guy Spit It Out

by iwritefanficsnottragedies



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Although it's only mentioned, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, POV Second Person, Slight Bruce/Betty, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-09-04 22:06:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16797958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwritefanficsnottragedies/pseuds/iwritefanficsnottragedies
Summary: You got low. You didn't see an end. So you put a bullet in your mouth...and The Other Guy spit it out.A short character study about Bruce's past suicide attempt.





	And The Other Guy Spit It Out

The story happens pre-New York. Pre-Avengers. Pre-everyone-thinking you're-some-sort-of-hero. You know - even now as you spend your evenings in the lab of _freakin' Tony Stark_ \- you're no hero. It's a delusion they've all created. You're not good for anything but hurting people.

The story happens post-Betty. That's how you tell your time now. Pre-Betty, post-Betty, pre-New York, post-New York. You think you might miss Betty more than you miss anyone else. You miss your mom, but there are no memories of happy times with her. Betty's time is bathed in sunlight in your mind. When she was gone, all the bright colors faded out of your life.

You had wondered if she would miss you. You considered - as you sat in the middle-of-nowhere cave with the weight of that heavy object in your hand - you considered not doing it. Just for a moment you considered not doing it. They say suicide is the most selfish way to go, and though you have a great many faults and the lives of hundreds on you conscience, you try your hardest not to be selfish. And then you remember what you are. You're a monster. The least selfish thing to do would be to end it. 

You never wrote a note. This is something you never tell, even after you've given away your story in a fit of passion on the helicarrier. Even after you've given away even more of the story to Stark, who drunkenly returned the favor. (You don't wonder why Stark is so close to Pepper anymore. If someone had been there to stop _you,_ you'd follow them around like an overgrown puppy too.) But you don't release this one detail to anyone. No note. It just seems pathetic, and pathetic is like selfish. You can remember Dad calling you that when he beat you and you cried. A pathetic brat. No note. But there was no one to write to. 

You got low. That's how the story starts. But that can't describe how you felt that night. Lazy. You had gotten lazy and selfish and pathetic and you had come out of hiding to live in a town with real people again. You knew the dangers of people. You knew how unpredictable they - no, how unpredictable _you_ were. But you went there anyway and there were consequences. 

It was something stupid. You had been doing good work. You didn't get into trouble anymore. That was for pre-accident you. You shouldn't have been jumped, true. The men shouldn't have tried to take your money and beat you dead. But you also should've had more control. You didn't even last through the first punch. And then, black. 

It's hard to describe how you feel when _he's_ in control. Not good. The transformation is painful in a bone-aching way. Sometimes you're out through the whole thing. Other times you hear roars, see flashes of green. Tony's convinced that you and...The Other Guy are connected. That you share passions. People you care about, he takes care of. Betty, Tony, the team. You don't want to share anything with him.

That evening was a total blackout. You woke up in a way you're all too used to waking - naked in the midst of destruction. The town was burning around you. You're still not sure how many died that day. You counted fifteen on your way out. You found yourself a hunting store where it was all too easy to steal a pair of awful camouflage pants -- and then, spontaneously, one of the few guns and some amo that had not been employed in the worthless cause of stopping _him._ But then, as you held the weapon, you thought maybe you knew what to do. It wasn't him that had to be stopped. It was you. You had created him after all. 

You didn't see an end. You found that cave - as far as you could get before you collapsed. When you take control back, you're always left exhausted. Your body's learned to compensate for the ridiculous amount of energy spent when he takes over, but you're still always left hungry and dead-tired. Now you're fed shawarma and laid out in a billionaire's guest suite. Back then, all you had was starvation and sleepless nights. No one else was going to punish you. It was an endless cycle. A loop that you would never escape. You get lulled into a false sense of security. You take up residence somewhere - some little town where maybe you can help. You try to help for a while - living as a doctor, factory worker, interpreter, cook - whatever the town needs you to be. You never mention that you have your PhD or that your main interest used to be gamma radiation. You just live your life. You live a normal almost-happy life. Sometimes you even make friends. The "time since last incident" chart lengthens. And then it all goes wrong. Then people end up dead and you end up right back here in a cave in the woods. You didn't think the cycle would break. So you decided to break it.

So you put a bullet in your mouth. You took the stolen gun. You loaded the bullets with shaking fingers while thinking of Betty. You remember her teaching you how to load a gun. You wonder if she'll ever know how you went out. You hope not. You hope she'll stop looking for you eventually and move on with her life. Maybe she'll get married. Have the children the two of you never could. You cocked the gun with a steadier hand. You deserved this. This was right and good. Finally, _finally_ you could _help_ people for a change. You could be a hero instead of a monster. Your hand was almost steady and your mind was almost calm. Your heart monitor wasn't spiking. _You_ were in control. And you were going to end him. For everyone you had killed. For Betty. For yourself. You could finally be happy, if only in death. You pulled the trigger. You put a bullet in your mouth.

And The Other Guy spit it out.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I wrote this fic a long time ago...pretty much right after the first Avengers movie. It's been hanging out on my computer ever since, so I figured I'd give it a home here. Let me know if you liked it, and if you think I should make a companion piece catching up in the timeline. Bruce is an absolutely fascinating character to me, and the definition of a tragic backstory, and I love what the MCU has done with him so far (give me my Mark Ruffalo movie plz!) As a depressed bastard myself, finding friends who also have mental health issues can actual be really helpful, and I love the implied Tony Stark/Bruce Banner depressed bastard science friends that the MCU has given us. As always, none of the characters belong to me, they're just on loan. Let me know if you enjoyed! Thanks!


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